What You Never Know
by Jesus Christ Superstar
Summary: RodolphusNarcissa—after the second fall of the Dark Lord. Oneshot. Please read and review.


**Author's Note:** _My new OTP. Seriously. Everyone makes Narcissa hate Rodolphus—I think they would actually be as close to "in love" as he could be._

**Disclaimer:** _Don't own anything Harry Potter, so don't be so daft to think I'm doing this for money._

**Summary:** _Angst—anger—and romance. What more could you ask for?_

* * *

She had been crying—it was obvious. The angelic figure, which had retained her beauty like a dried rose, had been sobbing—and not just for today… but it had been continuous. For such a long time that the sadness had twisted her features into a sort of tearstained beauty… maybe, she had been crying for a month now—a few weeks, surely. Either way, she still looked beautiful—she always would, for beauty was in her blood. Her cheeks were tearstained—smooth paths that the salty water had traced along her skin, running along the part in her lips or down her chin to drop and soak into her dress… Her lips were puffy from the many times she had put her face in her hands at random intervals throughout the day, and the many times she would run a handkerchief over her cheeks and nose—her blue eyes looking towards the ground, downcast in all meanings of the word, her eyebrows tugged together with worry and annoyance… each soft creak within the manor made her shift upon her perch, this location that she had chosen… This soft couch in the sitting room had always been her favorite—her mother had given it to her when Lucius and she were married—a wedding gift. It reminded her so much of home, and during this horrible time, where she could barely find the strength to cry, she needed her home. She wanted everything to be the same as it had been before any of this happened.

Before all of these plans had began to fall apart like a silk tapestry—someone had tugged a loose string, and it unraveled with the speed of discomposure—every braid within it separating to form, not wavy strands where they still graced one another's presence, but straightened fibers that did anything but weave together. She was alone, now—Lucius had died in Azkaban, her son had been murdered by the Dark Lord—she was forever trapped within the walls of the broken down family manor, the mansion that reflected the name she bore. Narcissa Malfoy—Malfoy, it was ill fated, it had been. She knew it was—her husband?—Lucius had pride… and pride… it always caused lives to end—and oh, how he ended. He was stopped by a dementor—he went down in a flurry of black robes and magic—the blonde headed, strong wizard was brought down by a vicious creature that claimed alliance with him. And she had cried at his death—she had—but… not for long. She couldn't show her weaknesses to those around her, for they would surely pick up upon it, and twist them around their fingers until she bent with compliance to their wants and needs. And then news came about Draco.

A letter written to her in her sister's penmanship—it was never hard to recognize Bellatrix's handwriting, for it had always struck Narcissa as being as vicious, yet as beautiful, as her elder sister had been. And Bellatrix?—she hadn't spared Narcissa the details. She wouldn't—Bellatrix admired the Dark Lord, she had loved Voldemort… But Narcissa wasn't stupid enough to believe that was all Bellatrix had loved. Even Narcissa had known—deep down within her heart, that there was only one her sister had wished to romance. And there were times where Narcissa was jealous—the emotion rising in the back of her mind, spitting and hissing when Bellatrix had poked fun at the idea of romance… That was what Narcissa hated of her sister—she was a hypocrite. She called those who wanted love, those who wanted to be admired by their spouse, fools—yet, she had wished the same for herself… But not from the man with whom she had tied her name. No—he was… he was hers, that was sure, but he was not completely won over by the black haired vixen who had so many tied around her finger. And everyone knew this—oh, the arguments they would break out into. Biting words flying back and forth—phrases harsh enough to rip down the haughtiest of people…

Draco had fallen with the tremble of a child—for, he was nothing more than a boy. He had begged the Dark Lord—he had clasped Voldemort's robes in his hands, and tugged, begging, sobbing into the satin fabric, his blonde hair as messy has Narcissa's was now. He had screamed for absolution from his punishment—he couldn't murder Albus Dumbledore… he was just a child—and Voldemort knew that this boy could not murder another living being. Draco still had his innocence—he hadn't much left, that was sure, but he was still young—and the youth always had a bit of their souls retained, a small halo of gold around their heads… He didn't have the strength to murder Dumbledore—and as such, his punishment for almost destroying the Cause had been death. He had been tortured, she knew, first—Bellatrix's ink was blotchy on this part, for she knew her sister was laughing, recalling his face, recalling the way he moved… the way he writhed like an animal—but she could read it. Narcissa could always read what was placed before her—no matter the hand. She had stood by the fire when she read this note—and when she had finished, she didn't do anything more than simply let it flutter into the flames…

Pain engulfed her body and heart like the flames that destroyed the letter. She had gone to his funeral—a small precession. And that Potter boy had attended. He tried to say something to Narcissa—she hadn't listened. She had brushed by him without looking at him… his friends had attended as well—the Weasleys… She didn't notice their vibrant hair—but she had looked up and noticed something in the shadows. A figure, leaning against a tree… no one else had seen him—but she. She couldn't see how, either, for he did create a bit of an image of himself—he lit a cigarette… she had known who he was at that moment. Rodolphus—it was his signature move—she had pinned that with his name such a long time ago, when they were all young, when they were all carefree, the days when the most she had to worry about was how to do her hair for various parties…

Oh, how the mighty had fallen—she had heard that phrase before—she had read it so many times in the _Daily Prophet_, it now made her sick to think about it… She could not deny that it was true. She could not laugh and scoff at it, as her sister had. No—she knew that it was accurate. The mighty had fallen… and they had been scattered into the wind like dust—no one cared what came of them, no one wanted to know what came of them. They were all now, second-rate parlor gossip, when they had, once, been the talk of the town… What dress had Bellatrix been wearing? How had Narcissa applied her makeup? What brand of whiskey did Lucius drink? How had Rodolphus managed to pull off that jacket?—those shoes?—the way he wore his hair? Those were the days to which she wished to return. When they were all so fickle, so proud, so beautiful… But, they would not be returning…

"Narcissa Malfoy…?" She looked up—she hadn't heard anyone enter. Her eyes adjusted from the darkness of her palms to the light of the room—the way the sun spilled through the large windows, casting golden streaks over the dusty floor… And as she moved to stand, footsteps echoed through the large, vacant sitting room as he walked across the carpet to kneel before her, clasping her hand in his, and shaking his head—his grey-silver eyes just as they were so long ago, "I came because… I—I just wished to make certain you are all right… This doesn't do well for you, you do realize? This constant pain, you torture yourself crying…"

Her lips pulled into a small smile—or rather, it would be better to note her lips twitched at the corners. Narcissa had never, honestly, grinned outright. She removed one hand from his, reaching across to put it upon his cheek, her fingers curving with the shape of his strong jaw, his skin just as soft as it had been the last time she had dared to feel him… They were all older, yes—but one had to admit that they still held beauty—something that her sister had been stripped of. And she wondered how Rodolphus managed to escape thirteen years of anguish that plagued her sister, and their fellows… His hair, once a dark chocolate color, was streaked with silver, and much longer than it had been. He had brushed it since his escape, she was sure—for it was pulled back in a loose and low ponytail, silky soft to the touch, and cool to the fingertips. The type of locks that one wished to run their hands through always… And his eyes?—bright silver, they had been in their youth, now held a bit of a cool temperature to their gaze, but it was nothing that dampened the streak of worry. His skin was still olive, and soft—and he did have a bit of a scruff to his chin, though it only made him look more handsome. He looked like a professor—the type that his students would fantasize about… He was thinner, but it suited him, now—"You once told me you liked torture… I have found a small piece of peace within it. I have nothing to smile about—all I can do is cry."

"That is a lie, Narcissa—you and I know it," he looked up at her, brows arching with the grace and cockiness that brought so many memories back to her like a rush of water—a waterfall that was pushing her under, drowning her… "You can smile… I know you hadn't the time for religion, Cissa, but… Lucius and Draco?—they are happy where they went. They—you will see them when it is your time…" He brought her hand up to his lips, brushing a soft kiss over her fingers, and she closed her eyes, an intake of breath that he noted. They had been off-limits to one another—they had been denied… She was for Lucius, he was for Bellatrix… But now?

"You did not—Draco… he… Bellatrix said the Dark Lord"—

"Voldemort. He is no more—you needn't address him like the king he was not"—

"He…" Narcissa paused, a soft frown curving her lips. Rodolphus had always held a rebellious streak that rivaled that of Sirius'. It was why he was good for Bellatrix—dangerous for Narcissa—and foolish to join with Voldemort. He had become an asset, however, over the years, she knew, to the Dark Lord, for he had become his personal assassin. And, Lord knows, everyone feared the day that Rodolphus showed up on their doorstep. He had become an angel of death, as cliché as it sounded, 'twas true. He was handsome—he was _beautiful_… yet, all he brought was destruction—death… But, never had he brought that to her doorstep. He left that cloak outside when he stepped into her life. He always made sure—he loved her. She allowed her hand to fall from his cheek, running down his neck to lay atop his black robes—his arms reached out, wrapping around her waist, drawing her down on the floor to kneel with him—"It wasn't you, was it, that…"

"Never," he leaned over her, his lips brushing against her cheek, and down her neck—soft kisses that found their way over her skin. Her eyes closed, and her hands ran up his chest, wrapping around his neck… It was years, and years of want breaking down the dam they had both constructed. With each moment their prearranged engagements had lasted, they had added a stone to block their feelings. They had cemented each stone together with the hours they spent apart… but now? With Bellatrix too distracted by the fall of her Dark Lord to notice anything worth care, and the death of Lucius…? They could no longer hold back the deep, rushing water that beckoned them to destroy the dam so they could drown in one another's kisses—one another's passion. And how they both longed for it. He pulled her so close, she could feel his heartbeat against her chest—her hands found their way through his hair, finding the ribbon that held it all back, away from his face, and she pulled. Silver-streaked brown fell about his face, covering her hands in silken threads that she immediately started to twist around her fingers, occasionally daring enough to run a finger over the collar of his robes, her nail dragging softly over his skin.

He pushed her against the couch, leaning her back as his lips worked their way from her cheek to find her own, one hand remaining on her back to help her balance, while the other traced the curve of her side, sending chills racing up her spine. And for each moment they remained in this pose, the stones that held back their emotions cracked—shooting up the dam, trickles of love and affection running down its face, the pressure making the stone buckle… Narcissa pulled away from his kisses, looking up at him with a smile, her eyes looking deep into the silver gaze that glittered down at her—"You do love me…" 'Twas a statement—a powerful one. For they both had realized what these bottled emotions were, neither had ever said anything aloud, for fear that something like this would occur when it was forbidden… This was their apple—this was what the snake was tempting them with, and now? When there were no punishments for doing so, they both happily bit into it, puncturing the skin with their teeth… And he nodded down at her, laying her on the floor, her blonde hair creating a halo around her face—she was an angel now, if she hadn't ever been one.

And the sunlight slowly crept across the floor of the sitting room as the two of them rolled about in the dust—with each hour the grandfather clock chimed, they both ignored the steady climb the sun made in the sky, and then the descent—only did they dare look up at the time when dusk splattered the sky outside with pinks, purples, and oranges… Even then, they did not care—he simply lay beside her, his arms around her, fingers tangled in her hair as she closed her eyes, her ear pressed against his chest so she could ear the soft thud of his heart… her way of making certain he was alive. That this was really happening. And they were so comfortable, laying here—together—the soft creaks of the house lulling them into this satisfactory safety, where they were both sure that they could remain this way forever. Her hand laying upon his robed chest, his fingers tracing her spine beneath her dress… This was a picture suited for a romance novel—their life was something Shakespeare would have loved… and nothing changed as she pulled herself from his arms, leaning over him like a girl—a smile curving her lips, arms on either side of his torso to hold her up—"We can stay this way forever… This house is big enough—you can live with me… We can tell no one—Rodolphus…?"

His smile had steadily turned into a frown—his brows arching, and his hand reaching up to place itself on her cheek, thumb tracing her lips, "No—I am on the run… I can not, and I will not place you in so much danger… You are free on a thread—the Ministry—they would find out you had been housing a convict. They would come—you would be placed inside Azkaban," his grey eyes burned her with his worry… His want for her to remain safe. And, though it normally wouldn't bother her—she would find it flattering—something ticked within her. Something broke. So much pressure she had been under for the past years, it had worn her, made her tired—and now? Whatever had been holding her together cracked, and snapped, and suddenly, she felt betrayed. This worry for her safety suddenly became him not wanting her—just using her—though she knew, somewhere, that was anything but true. She stood, jerking away from his touch, and he followed her lead. He stood before her, his shoulders back with a stance that screamed power—but she didn't care. She'd lost so much—she'd just gained him. She wasn't going to be forsaken by him, simply because he cared about her wellbeing.

"You—you… You do not want to—to stay with me? You—you're just leaving? Why?—why are you leaving me—you can't leave me… I forbid it. Draco! Lucius!—they left me… I love you, and I shan't let you leave me with them!" Her speech was slurred—her mind twitching—she was having a mental break down. This… news… wasn't kind to her, as it should have been. She was blowing it out of proportion, she was twisting his words—she knew—but she couldn't stop herself. One thing lead to another—one splinter in her stability lead to another shuddering crack—and now? She had snatched her wand from the coffee table, twirling it between her fingers, and he was watching her… so calmly—like he knew she would do this. He had dealt with Bellatrix—this wasn't anything new to him… this wasn't new to his patience… But he hadn't dealt with a woman who was in love, who had been betrayed more times than she could count upon her fingers… that was his mistake. And her rushing emotions?—that was hers.

"I am not leaving you because I wish to, Narcissa"—he reached out, grabbing her shoulders, attempting to calm her… instead, she jerked away, walking back and forth across the room, his eyes following her—"I am leaving because if I stay, everything… everything will fall apart more-so. We live on this thread, Narcissa—if it breaks, we will all fall…" His hair fell around his face in layers—he looked ten years younger with his hair loose. And she turned, facing him, only to jerk away again—she couldn't handle this.

"You are leaving because you've used me!" She screamed, her hands pulling on her hair, her wand sparking threateningly. He reached out to her—putting his arm around her waist, trying to calm her, to soothe her… it wasn't working. It just ruffled her feathers more. In the back of her head, her sanity was screaming to her—begging her to stop, to look at reason—but she couldn't. Her paranoia had suddenly taken over, it had risen like a rearing horse, kicking and screaming, telling her to make sure he didn't leave—that he never would… She turned on him, pointing her wand at his chest. He didn't reach for his own—he never would hex her… And with a scream, and a cry, a sob, and a stumble backwards, she sent a jet of green light towards him. His body fell to the couch, his head thunking on the armrest before his limp form fell to the floor… his grey gaze up at the ceiling, staring into the darkness… And she stopped. Her paranoia vanished as soon as it had come, and she dropped her wand to the ground, both of her hands reaching up to clasp over her mouth… "RODOLPHUS?"

She had murdered him—she had killed him… when everything was going so right—so correctly for once—she had ruined it. With a curse, she had ended it all… She couldn't go on—she wouldn't be able to function. So much had been taken from her, and now? She could no longer hold the little bit of grace she had retained during Draco's funeral. She couldn't keep the hope Rodolphus had given her in one night—it was useless. It was like water in cupped hands—it slid out through her fingers so rapidly, by the time he had hit the ground, never to stand again, she doubted there was anything good in this world. She left her wand to lay upon the carpet, and she walked over to one of the large windows—her eyes looking up into the full moon… Her hands reached up to the velvet, and she jerked. The drapery fell to the ground, she dragged it behind her as she ran through the manor—rushing to the grand staircase that curled up to the second floor. She walked up the marble stairs, her bare feet padding silently through the house… And when she came to a stop at the platform that overlooked the foyer, she tied the drapery to the banister. With the other end, she tied in a loop.

Around her neck the velvet went—like a queen's robe, she wore the poorly made noose. Her soft hair fell over it like a sheet of gold—her blue eyes closed to the world… She clambered onto the banister, her toes keeping her balance upon the wood—her arms outstretched like a bird's wings… She took flight. She tipped herself over the side—her hair flying out behind her like a cape, her dress ruffling as she fell from the banister… There was a soft chord played that night—a soft beat as the velvet fabric was pulled taught by her body weight… Like a blossoming rose, her skirt twirled around her legs, swirling—casting a shadow upon the marble floor in the moonlight. Her shadow appeared as if she were dancing—the rotation causing her garments to flutter gracefully. Her hair swirled around her vacant face, her sightless eyes staring down upon the silhouette she caused on the floor. Her shadow spun weightlessly in a swirling tango—and Narcissa got her wish that night… Rodolphus was untouchable, again—and she was dancing… just as it used to be when they were young. When life had been simple…

When they all had been lonely…


End file.
